


I Think of Things We Did

by J_deandra_j



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Explicit Language, M/M, McLennon, Period-Typical Homophobia, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, RPF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-02
Updated: 2020-02-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:08:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22532236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/J_deandra_j/pseuds/J_deandra_j
Summary: John makes bad decisions. Set during the filming of "Help!" in Austria, the night of the gig at the Marietta Hotel.
Relationships: John Lennon/Paul McCartney
Comments: 23
Kudos: 86





	I Think of Things We Did

**Author's Note:**

> March 18, 1965, Obertauern, Austria
> 
> The gig: http://wogew.blogspot.com/2015/01/the-obertauern-gig.html
> 
> This is purely a work of fiction for fun, not profit.

  
A good drunk could go any number of ways, John knew. Cyn already suspected one; she’d left some time ago with George and Patti, Ritch and Mo, stopping by the tiny stage with tight lips, murmuring “G’night, love.” She’d already forgiven him with her eyes.  
  
Freedom was a heady thing. Cyn gone, playing for the sheer hell of it because they wanted to, with no strings except those on the wide pickups of Jacky’s luverly Jazzmaster, a bitch with balance who responded sweetly under John’s fingers. Like _someone_ used to.  
  
Somewhere between one Bavarian pint and the next, between one cheek-bump and the next, one swap of sweat or spit or maybe both with Paul across the mic, John decided he’d do something worth being forgiven for.  
  
Fuck good sense, fuck decisions. Eight arms to hold you? John had his choice of at least eight different people in that very room who’d be up for shagging him silly. But what it boiled down to was that John really wanted to fuck Paul, and why shouldn’t he, after all?  
  
Pot-valiance, Julia used to call it. Good sense had convinced him some months ago to move Paul to arms’ length, because if the cute arms of dearest Jane were enough to separate them, then maybe they’d best not be together at all? And Paul, the traitor; he’d smiled his way out of John’s orbit seemingly without a care. The true star of the Beatles was blithe and superior in his exile to London society.  
  
Until this week. John had been the lucky recipient of several sullen, red-eyed glares from Paul across the snow, then tonight’s volte-face of locked-in intimacy, and _finally,_ Paul’s goofy grin as he caught John’s eye, the teeth on his lower lip, the deliberate and intimate bump of his knee as they sang Gershwin and Presley and everything old. The Nerk Twins, chez the Fox and Marietta.  
  
This was a game John knew from way back. He’d instigated it, after all.  
  
As the fun crept into the wee hours of the Alpine ay-em, Paul with his shiny face leaned more heavily on John with every laugh, and the butterflies boogied ever harder in John’s stomach, until at last the hovering hotel-daddy shooed them off the stage.  
  
Of course there was no immediate escape because o’course everyone wanted to talk to them, but Traitor Paul hung close, sharing body heat and laughing glances in between sucking up to the spectators, until John’s balls had tied themselves in knots, _let’s go, let’s go_.   
  
_Yeah, yeah, yeah, happy birthday’n all, Clive, it’s not your birthday anymore so just fuck off now, okay, yeah yeah yeah?  
_  
Finally John just grabbed Paul’s wrist and tugged. Still the fucker was talking, apologizing about the drum he’d shredded, _sorry, sorry, sorry, haha._  
  
“Paul,” John shouted in his sweaty ear. “We need a chat. Get movin’, Grace.”  
  
Either the nickname or John’s tone of voice penetrated Paul’s thick skull. “Right, right, okay,” he demurred, letting John pull him along. “The boss needs me, ha ha--”  
  
John rolled his eyes and pulled harder on Paul’s wrist, dragging him stumbling behind, still flapping his lips, _Pardon, thanks, pardon_ , as John tugged him like a two-man Conga through the thinning crowd, kept at bay from further encroachment by the look on John’s face. A bad attitude was a fine thing, maneuvering them through blur-faced drunken skiers and drunken gaffers and post-production assistants and even Eppy’s fading grin until they reached the narrow, crooked hall outside the lounge, then another narrow hall beyond. Still, Paul was talking, as aw-shucks as ever.  
  
“We going for a laugh? What’s all this, then? Got your knickers in a twist, Johnny? Thought we were having fun. Oh ho, wait now--”  
  
He stopped pretending when John jammed his thumb up under the cuff of Paul’s sweaty jumper, his heart pounding faster as he traced the knobby tendons and veins on Paul’s wrist. A randomly chosen door, when shoved open, proved to be a closet, thank Christ; maybe that blurry writing was German for “here be brooms?” He threw Paul inside and shut the door behind them.  
  
Whatever Paul was going to say next died against John’s mouth, his long, stupid moan. John skipped the wooing with sloppy aim and went straight for tongue, crushing Paul between his own face and the mops, tasting the beer and smokes on Paul’s breath, and Paul. Hell, it had been a long time.  
  
Paul responded un-wooed, tangling his fingers in John’s hair and kissing him back, his mouth as slick and filthy divine as it had ever been. Paul, Paul, Paul, not pliable at all, he seemed sincere as he fumble-fingered prints onto the back of John’s neck, wedging his head between the dustpans to engineer a really good snog at just the right angle to keep the nose-knocking to a minimum.  
  
Sonnie, Bron, or even -- well, any of them -- would be a sure lay for the night. Yet John had chosen Paul. He sucked Paul’s dumb, lovely fat lips, licked his teeth, tasted the drumbeat of Paul’s heart in the stubble threatening to erupt beneath his jaw, and his soul awoke like a sad bitch at the shudder of Paul’s skin under his tongue.  
  
Of fucking course, given an opportunity to talk, Paul would.  
  
“What, you wanna shag in the utility closet?” he huffed.  
  
“Maybe I do.” John kissed him again. That was the ticket these days: if they didn’t talk, they got along fine. But no such luck. Paul dug his thumbs into John’s cheeks and detached him.  
  
“Does the door even lock.”   
  
“Jesus, Paul.” John glared. “Do your Beatle People invade the closets now?"  
  
Paul shrugged. “They invade everything,” he said, with a surprising hint of bitterness.  
  
“Not if we’re quick,” John said, with a responding hint of hopefulness, counterpointed with a crotch-thrust. They were both hard -- or at least getting there -- and didn’t that give John a fine little tingle up his spine? Paul was trying to look stern but was betrayed by his prick and his face, lips and eyes huge and wet and beguiling in the dim space. Jelly eyes. “Jelly baby,” John murmured.  
  
“It’s you.”  
  
“Sha na na,” John mumbled in reply back, then kissed Paul again because he got it, of fucking course Paul got it.  
  
For a productive minute or so it was quiet except for some shared desperate breaths, until the accountant in Paul’s head (if two (2) Beatles are caught fucking in one (1) closet, how many thousands of pounds (?) will they lose) interrupted them once more. Paul tugged John’s hair. “Where’s Cyn?”  
  
“Jesus, Paul!” John exploded again, this time letting frustration overcome lust. “Who cares? Gone back. D’ye wanna fuck or not?”  
  
The bastard took almost too long with his head calculations before answering. Almost.  
  
“Not here. This ain’t Hamburg, y’know. My room’s free,” he added in the nick of time.   
  
Or maybe it wasn’t. John was tiring of this game. (Not really.)  
  
He stepped back, pulling his hands out from beneath Paul’s jumper. “Yeah? Where’s Miss Austria tonight?”  
  
Paul licked his lips and John watched.   
  
“Dunno. In bed, I reckon. She has to work early. Out on the slopes, you know.”  
  
John hmphed. “We have to work early. The rooms are all the way down the street. I’ll fucking lose my throbber before we get half there.”  
  
“Well, if you’re afraid you won’t be able to get it back up …”  
  
“Bastard.”  
  
“What a sweet mug you are, John. It’s a wonder anyone can resist you.”  
  
“Yeah? Well, if I wanted to sweet talk anyone, I wuddent be trying to make it with you, would I?”  
  
“Hmm.” Paul stepped back, straightening his clothes, fluffing his hair. Calculating. “What, a couple hundred yards? Can we do it without our coats?”  
  
“Shore thing, Miss Prissy,” John said.  
  
“I shay. I shay, now, boy,” Paul countered, and cracked the door. Apparently the coast was clear, because he nipped out, hands in his pockets, nothing to see here. John followed.  
  
A side exit provided further escape. Sleepy Obertauern proved even sleepier in the wee hours, with not a single Beatle Person to accost them as they headed for the highway that wound through the snowy valley and connected the chalets. A light snowfall dampened sound further, eerie after their raucous lounge act.   
  
Somewhere out there were mountains, invisible in the night of a clouded sky and myopia, but John felt their gravity nonetheless. As they walked, side by side, innocent as babes, his pot-valiance seeped out like lost body heat. Paul shivered.  
  
“Gotta ciggie? Mine were in my coat.”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Ah. That’s too bad.” After another minute of silence, Paul tried again. “So. I never even got to play the Fender. I might’ve liked to’ve done that.”  
  
“O! So, so sorry, Ollie Begolly,” John sneered.  
  
Paul merely laughed. “The star of the show has been feeling neglected and all.”  
  
“Izzat why Vic has been looking all dejected, then?”  
  
“Hmm.” Paul set his hand against John’s back, slipping cold and bold fingers into the tight waist of John’s denims. John exhaled tension through his nose, watched the cloud dissipate in the chilly, snowy air. _I've got your love to keep me warm, Miss Prissy._ Still, his throbber had long since flagged. Perhaps he’d join Cyn after all. A soft prick didn’t care where it slept.  
  
“So. So. Speaking of Vic,” Paul continued. “Er. What was all that about?”  
  
John could pretend he didn’t know what Paul was talking about. But John had done it, after all, sent Vic as a go-between for the most ordinariest of messages. And Paul knew he knew Paul knew he’d done it, and this was all too convoluted for a drunken shag, wasn’t it? Goddamned Paul. Who ever really knew what he was thinking?  
  
“Figured you preferred to talk to other celebrities, is all.”  
  
“Right. That’s me,” Paul said, some bitterness returning to his tone.  
  
“The Culture Vulture,” John pressed. “You could still be somebody, y’know, if you work hard at it …”  
  
Paul’s fingers, cold but warming, pressed harder against the skin at John’s hip. “Well, maybe I would rather just talk to you. Straight, you know, kind of thing.”  
  
“’Cos we’re so good at it,” John said.  
  
“Always were.”  
  
John was nostalgic enough, or perhaps merely cold enough, to move closer and make their trek slightly less innocent. Cyn had forgiven him already. After all. He snaked an arm around Paul’s waist and felt a suspicious lump in his front jeans pocket. He investigated.  
  
“You lyin’ cunt. You’ve got ciggies right here!”  
  
“Oh. So I do.” Unrepentant, Paul snatched the pack from John’s fingers, shook two smokes into his mouth, and dug out a lighter with his free hand to fire them both. He passed one to John, who accepted with a grunt.  
  
The cigarettes lasted through the quiet front door of the Edelweiss; John followed Paul to his room, if only to finish his smoke. Cyn didn’t like it when he smoked while she was sleeping.  
  
Paul’s room proved an uncharacteristic wreck, the bed covered with recording equipment, half-unpacked suitcases, and other junk. Souvenirs. John located an ashtray next to a bag from a chocolate shop.   
  
“What’s the jumble, Ollie? Pressies for dear Jane?”  
  
Paul slid the lock home with a blithe flick of his wrist. “Haven’t been sleeping here, you know.”  
  
“Where -- oh, yeah. Miss Austria.” Whom he’d likely be with right now, back at the Marietta, if not importuned by John. Who really should have left well enough alone.  
  
“Goodbye,” John said, and meant it.  
  
But Paul blocked the door. “Where you goin’, Johnny?” he asked with liquid eyes, a slight crinkle in his brows above them.  
  
When John raised a hand to unlatch the lock, Paul slid into the opening and pressed himself close, nose to nose. Eyeball to eyeball.  
  
“’M leavin’,” John mumbled.  
  
Hamburg Paul would’ve sputtered but moved the fuck out of the way. Traitor Paul leaned forward to catch John’s bottom lip in his teeth.   
  
“D’ye really want to?” he asked, with tongue.  
  
“Mmph,” John said. It could have been either a yes or a no, but nobody could tell, least of all him, as lust -- which a bad attitude had kept at bay -- reemerged in a desperate, clinging kiss that pressed them so close he could feel the cigarettes in Paul’s jeans pocket. Some of Paul’s sweaty hair had frozen into little clumps.  
  
“Paul,” he whispered.   
  
“Whaddya want?” Paul whispered in his ear. With tongue. Fuck all eight arms -- Paul had ‘em, groping John’s arse, mauling him under his shirt and up his sides.  
  
“Paul,” John managed, feeling suddenly very small and pathetic.  
  
“What is it you want, Johnny?” Paul asked again, enunciating, his palm jammed onto John’s crotch, cold fingers curling under John’s prick, that treacherous, needy thing.  
  
John was so fucking screwed. How had he forgotten? Underestimating Paul was how you got hurt.   
  
“You used to talk to me, y’know,” Paul murmured to the sensitive hollow below John’s ear, his words vulnerable and his position anything but, what with grabbing John by the heart and all.  
  
“Goddammit. Fuck me,” John ground out.  
  
Paul kissed him again, deep and slow, and John clung to him like his only line to air. Unable to resist being smug for long, Paul pulled away after a bit with a half-smile curling his pinked, fat lips. “You know, ‘m a little pissed. I was thinking, maybe you could fuck me.”  
  
“Goddammit,” John repeated, as his body betrayed him with a harsh shudder that reached his fingers. “Whatever you want, you cunt. Is that okay?”  
  
“Aha! What’s this? More sweet-talking? Put out or get out, son.”  
  
John shoved Paul away. He tore off his own jumper and the tee-shirt beneath with it: there was no way he was getting out now, not with a hardon the size of the Gamsleitenspitze and anger flooding fire in his veins. His jeans bore the brunt of that as he yanked them down and promptly tangled them on his shoes. He kicked the lot off with a snarl. If he was to have his heart broken again, he wouldn’t go down without a fight.   
  
“Yer such a faggot sometimes, Paul,” he noted as Paul calmly tugged off his shirt and folded it, then laid it on a chair, and then—only then—unbuttoned his fly. He was humming. “You want my dick in you that badly?”  
  
“Haha! You’re one t’talk.”  
  
So what? John would never admit it. Who cared about Hamburg, and Scotland, and Miami, and – and how was it he’d not yet tired of Paul, when he knew every inch of him already? Yet there he was. Months of good sense had been wasted; John’s palms fairly itched with a need to learn Paul all over again.  
  
And there was Paul. Naked and digging through a fucking suitcase. Whistling. _Summertime, and the livin’ is easy …_  
  
“Christ,” John bitched.  
  
“Ach! Calm yourself.” Paul brandished a crinkled little tube of lubricant. John snatched it from his fingers and twisted off the top. With one hand he slicked up his dick (his dick was slick, a slick dick, his slick dick was going into Paul haha) and with the other he started to shove random shit off the bed and onto the floor.  
  
“Wait! Wait -- can you even see what you’re -- ah, well, never mind.” Paul bent over to rescue something from the floor and John nigh tackled him from behind, jamming his aching dick onto Paul’s arse-crack.  
  
Paul chuckled and sagged back, an achingly familiar weight. John licked his neck; the taste of Paul’s sweat and Alpine frost lingered on his tongue. “The fish are jumpin…”  
  
“And the cotton is high. Ah!” Paul cried out as John fondled his flagging erection. John heard the _stut-stut-stut_ of Paul’s breath, also all-too familiar, and tendrils of memory wormed through John’s chest, trying to crush his heart. He wouldn’t let them. A hard cock didn’t need to be all maudlin about things, dammit.  
  
He kept his hands moving, warm touch a focus on the physical. Forthlin Road Paul and Hamburg Paul had been skinny, a tasty mess of ribs and long, bony legs. Scotland Paul less so, and now, as Paul crawled onto the bed and onto his knees, the urge crossed John’s mind to point out that Paul’s arse was the size of Poland. But then, that would only open himself up to cracks about any extra pounds life at Kenwood had applied to his own middle. Even John could keep his mouth shut now and then.   
  
And it was a fine arse, all things considered. Soft and meaty, and as John rocked his hips in tiny, impatient jerks, nudging his cock inside _ah there,_ _bless you son_ , tight as the snap of a surgical glove.  
  
“Easy, easy,” Paul huffed, his arms and legs trembling.  
  
“Aye, aye,” John sang back. _Break me in easy._ He’d do him good, all right. It was easier to live down being an arsehole than it was to be a bad lay, and John was nothing if not a hell of a fuck. He offered Paul’s cock a couple of strokes, then curled a wet fingertip behind his balls.  
  
“Eee -- whew, whew,” Paul moaned, so very Paul, and memories fought back: the crackle of an abandoned LP on the record-player, the remnant of Mary McCartney in the yellowing curtains hanging in the window of Paul’s tiny room. Fucking Paul there for the first time, trying to be quiet as his world irreversibly expanded.  
  
“Paul,” John whispered, barely audible. He would never tire of this game. What a bitch.  
  
“Mmm?”  
  
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” John only breathed as he began to move faster, pressing their thighs together until the burgeoning buzz in his balls and the scratch of Paul’s leg-hair banished the last dregs of drunk in his brain. Back to living in the now, with just the two of them, no Miss Austria or gaffers or Cynthia or Jane, Jane, who’d taken all Paul’s time. The only one in the room to hear the noises Paul made was John.  
  
“Whoah!” Paul suddenly yelped. His wobbling arms had given way and he flopped forward into a face-full of bed. John’s next thrust missed side-arse, shoving Paul flat with an _oof_ of expelled breath. John hovered, every limb trembling.   
  
Ol’ Grace was back in action. In Hamburg, he’d tear his clothes and knock the equipment all over the stage. Nightly. John had to laugh. “Ye broke me.”  
  
“More pissed ‘n I thought,” Paul noted, his voice muted by the coverlet.  
  
“Upsy daisy, Lazy Grace,” John chuckled, manhandling Paul onto his back with not quite a wrestler’s finesse, earning a socked foot in his face in passing. Still, they got siturated eventually, and John burrowed between Paul’s thighs and grinned at him. With teeth.  
  
The clump of dark hair stuck to Paul’s forehead couldn’t hide the drawing-down of his eyebrows. His grin was sharp and tight. Oho, John had discovered something. He wasn’t sure what mood he’d found, and wasn’t sure he wanted to know. (Which was a lie.)  
  
“We can talk this way. You wanted to talk,” John said in his best cackling-granny voice.  
  
“Let me think of something sexy to pass along ta Vic, then,” Paul said with a wry nose-scrunch.  
  
“I’ll tell him you said PC 31 has a special pair of cuffs for ‘im.”  
  
Paul snorted so hard he choked. His expression lost some of its wariness and John pressed the advantage, hoicking up Paul’s thigh with one hand and guiding himself back to Paul’s arsehole with the other.   
  
“Oh, Algernon, how could you,” Paul said, mimicking Vic’s posh accent, then “Ah-ah-ah--” as John rocked his dick back inside.  
  
A few experimental thrusts proved it wasn’t a great angle. Felt fantastic to John, but Paul only gritted his teeth. Hauling his leg higher didn’t help. Much as John loved to torture Paul, it wasn’t turning out to be so much fun. _Who’s holding whose hand here?_  
  
“This ain’t no good,” John bitched. “Put your leg behind your head, now. Hold it -- hold it -- that’s right, hold your smile, you cheeky moptop bastard ...”  
  
Paul released a long breath through his teeth. “Right Bob. Thanks, Bob,” he said. Obediently he wriggled into a more comfortably fuckable position, bunching the coverlet beneath him. He crushed John’s ribs between his loverly muscular thighs and held on tight. John pushed in, hard.  
  
“That’s got it,” they both said at the same time.   
  
And the stupid thing beating in John’s chest stuttered to a near stop. He stared. Paul stared back, eyes wide and brows raised, seeming to hold his breath. _Don’t get real on me. Do ya still love me?_ The moment screamed to be broken in two and Paul snapped it first, squeezing his eyes shut, tangling his fingers in John’s hair.  
  
John had made good decisions in his life, and bad ones. Oh, so many bad ones.   
  
But repercussions were for tomorrow, and John focused on moving, back to the fucking, watching Paul’s mouth hang open, slack, stupid, stupidly beautiful.   
  
The slap and squelch of skin were background, mere atmosphere, but they two were still music, the most promising songwriters of their generation yannow, Paul’s rhythmic huffs of breath counterpoint to John’s badly disguised moans. Ye olde rustic Alpine bed creaked and squawked its own thoughts on the matter as John rocked harder, seeking better, more friction, angling into his death-grip on Paul’s arse like trying to jolt Paul back to life.  
  
And there, there, _there_. John’s spine gladly bore the punishment when Paul dug in his heels and arched off the bed with a harsh gasp.  
  
“Ha ha,” John crowed, hitting that there sweet spot again, and again, until Paul’s eyes blinked open and his mouth curled into a shape fit for whistling.  
  
“Ooo, that’s a good one, Johnny,” he lilted in his best, breathy cellar-dweller voice. And didn’t that fire John’s desire as much as the fucking, and didn’t Paul know it.   
  
And Christ, didn’t he look like Forthlin Road Paul, Quarrymen Paul, John’s Paul, as sweat dripped from John’s temples onto Paul’s cheeks, mingling with the sheen already plastering his pink face. He dragged John’s face down until they were nose-to-nose, making both of them filthy, grunting contortionists to keep up the rhythm.   
  
Aha, but John was double-jointed, could screw and pant “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” into Paul’s mouth at the same time. Paul answered, a smoke-tinged harmony of _fuck, yeah, yeah, yeah_.  
  
_Who was holding whose hand?_ Heat pooled at the base of John’s spine, electric friction all the places their bodies joined, that old and unexplained chemistry in their locked gazes.  
  
Never a dull moment with Paul. Never had been.  
  
John was going to lose, anyway. Tension sparked along the guitar-wire stretching from his balls to the base of his skull, pulling it thinner and thinner as the inevitable deep ache in his cock sank, hot, and slowed his movements. The wire snapped. He came, grunting and breaking rhythm as he chased the last dregs of pleasure, even past the line of pain.  
  
Paul chased it a while longer, rubbing his dick into John’s sweaty belly until John took the pity of the finished and gave him a hand. He could stave off the inevitable letdown by working Paul like putty, kissing his filthy mouth and tasting his _ahs_ through his tongue, feeling the dig of fingers on his shoulders when Paul came at last.  
  
They both had a few catchup moments, quiet except for the slowing of breaths, before the post-shag letdown hit. Strange that it arrived not bringing the usual disgust, merely a weariness so deep John’s blood was sluggish in his veins.  
  
No wonder he avoided Paul these days; John felt wrung out, like the ratty old rag Mimi had used to scrub the baseboards.  
  
In all his years, few in number but laden with experience, John had never met anyone else who made his heart soar or dive, so very high or so very low, from one second to the next. Simply by holding his hand. A lack of dull moments was not restful, and John was the laziest of men. Or so he told himself.  
  
He rolled onto his back and laid an arm across his eyes. Hiding. The bed bounced, and he heard the snick of a lighter. Smoke filled his nostrils. George, now. John had never wanted to fuck George, who was not easy to underestimate at all and never wore John out. Perhaps he should be better friends with George.  
  
Paul spoke after a bit, voice low and tired. “They’ll want us in makeup in what, two hours?”  
  
“Fuck ‘em,” John mumbled. “I’m sleeping.”  
  
“Hmm. Think I’ll shower first. Then I can bounce on out when I wake up.”  
  
John said nothing.  
  
“D’ye want to?”  
  
Yes, John did. He wanted to kiss Paul under a stream of hot water. He wanted to cry where nobody could tell. He wanted to crawl wet inside a dry bathrobe with Paul and never come out. He wanted to run away, go home far from the heaviness of mountains, and simply dream as the summers died.  
  
“Leave me alone,” John said.  
  
There was no answer for a minute or two. John dozed off to the quiet sounds of Paul sucking on his ciggie. Dimly he felt the bed dip, and perhaps he heard Paul speak.  
  
“Fine. Have it your way, John.”  
  
Perhaps John felt the emptiness of the bed without Paul in it. Didn’t really matter.   
  
  
  
  
END  
(Thankyou)  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! This is my first fic in this fandom, so please feel free to share any comments or concrit or questions or whatever -- all are welcome. Beta-read and encouraged by checkeredcloth -- thanks so much! Any other errors are mine.
> 
> This is, I believe, right before John/Cyn and George/Pattie do LSD for the first time at George's dentist's house.


End file.
